The exaggerations of genius, though they be natural to the individual, and their expressions unaffected, cannot be called nature-inasmuch as that term, applied to moral feeling, embraces the whole mass of mankind. Common minds are amazed and delighted at those splendid flights; but not coming home to the heart, the great majority of readers have no direct sympathy with the grand descriptions and sentiments poured out in profuse eloquence by the inspired. For the poetic and philosophic few entitled to that epithet, the mighty neighbourhood around me excites sensations which the vulgar cannot share. Different developments are, no doubt, given to the impressions made by the same objects in minds like those; yet the general result is the same-intense delight, and awe, and wonder. Byron and Coleridge did not feel alike in their Alpine reveries. The powerful piety of the one was a wide contrast to the fierce philosophy of the other. The Morning Hymn" is little like the thrilling stanzas of "Childe Harold," or the fervid eloquence of "Manfred;" while the full tide of poetry sprang from the same source in both. Yet how absurd would it be to fix on models so sublime by which to regulate or judge the general feelings of mankind! We must descend low down in the scale of moral feeling before we reach the ordinary level. And it may not be unamusing to catch a few fugitive proofs of its varieties, furnished by the impromptu pens of casual voyagers. To reach that level, then, let me quickly, but not abruptly, trace my way down from this high eminence, and returning towards the habitations of man, and the ways of the world, pause ere I make that one long step from the sublime to the ridiculous. MONTANVERT. How many thousand visitors have stood on this verdant plateau, gazed on that glacier sea, thrown up their looks on the terrible picturesqueness of the granite peaks, or the broad grandeur of the snow-covered mounds-unconscious of the marvellous and unrivalled combination! A book lies on the table of the small rude building erected for the shelter and refreshment of voyagers, by some generous Frenchman whose name I forget, but which is immortalised in the memories of the guides, and probably in the pages of the guide-books. This livre des amis, as it is called, is little more than an open register of names—a motley collection of patronymics from almost all quarters of the earth, proving at least that curiosity is of no country, and that example and the mode form the true centre of gravity, the attraction which leads mankind at will. But along with the mere signatures of the many, we have in this book the recorded sentiments of several. The volume has disappeared which contained the effusions of the Empress Josephine, Madame de Staël, and others of note; nor do I find any in the pages which remain that can compromise the fame of any person of eminence dead or living. But even if I had seen, here or elsewhere, a scrap of doggerel attached to some celebrated name, I should be disposed to consider it apocryphal, first from my doubt as to any one of literary reputation choosing to risk it for the poor vanity of throwing a random stanza or two on such a heap of rubbish, and next on the principle that I hope has made many a traveller charitably doubt the authenticity of some versified trash in the “Album ” of a Castle, near Baden-Baden, to which was affixed "The Author of Highways and Byways." To make a selection from the livre des amis of Montanvert would not be very difficult, either for the purpose of establishing a general proof of dull ribaldry, puling mediocrity, or whining cant. But the want of originality would make the task too irksome; and to search for exceptions would not pay the trouble. So a few random extracts shall be given, as I took them, by chance. "O mer de glace, à ta vue On ne voit que des bêtises!" "Ces vers en offrent un nouvel example," is the sharp, but unjust note (not of admiration) appended to the above lines by one of the writer's countrymen, I judge by the hand-writing; and the following is the dull and vulgar commentary of some thorough John Bull : "Mare de glass! No more like a mare than it is like a kangaroo, No more like a glass than a bottle, All humbug! nothing but ICE!" The following is a quatrain of genuine feeling, quite a relief among the nonsense that surrounds it. I was going to call it an oasis in the —but I check my fine writing in honour of its simplicity : "O Chamouni! ta charmante vallée, Laisse en mon cœur de bien doux souvenirs; Je ne t'ai vu qu'une journée, Mais ce jour là vaut un an de plaisir." It would be certainly somewhat mortifying to any one whose national sensitiveness sympathizes with the bad taste and presumption of his countrymen abroad (which mine does not) to compare the French vers with the English poetry, so to call it, which is thus scattered over the Continent. The next specimen I give might have been meant in jest. If there is not point in it, at any rate there is paradox, and that answers at times almost as well for a clap-trap. It was the best thing in the book, at least in that tongue which Milton so venerated as "the language of men ever foremost and famous in the achievement of liberty:"_ "Mont Blanc, thou hackneyed theme of poets' lays! I'll say of thee what has not yet been said By the small living or the mighty dead; I say thou art beyond description curst, The meanest of God's works and not the first: Who can in thee benevolence descry, Or care for man, among the powers on high? Thy avalanches blast the peasant's toil, And, demon like, exult to scathe the soil!” Not many pages off I stumbled on a contrast : "Amid this glorious Alpine world, To thee, O God! I bend the knee, To thee alone my spirit turns, I gaze on thee-I think on thee- But I cannot go on with the well-meant rigmarole; particularly as I want to leave space and keep my readers in temper for the infliction of some other lines, scribbled by an anonymous hand and an ill-cut pencil while the author stood on the bridge at St. Martin, near Sollenches, and which he had not the courage to commit to the book of Montanvert, in the same hand-writing with his name, which does lie there—a fly in amber: "TO THE MONT BLANC. "Man might bow down and worship thee, Thy solemn splendour, thy intense magnificence! And hush themselves on that soft couch to sleep. The lightnings sear not, nor the thunders shake And far above the storm! Now, awful mists Sweep slowly o'er thy sides, and shroud thy head It seems as though thou hadst upsprung tow'rds Heaven (As well it might) had sunk to meet thee, Creation's masterpiece! Unfathomed depth, Nov.-VOL. LI, NO. CCIII. THE GREAT WESTERN JUNGLE.* BY AN OLD FOREST-RANGER. READER, hast thou ever indulged in that very pleasant, but, like most pleasant things, very wrong habit of taking snuff? Hast thou ever, when in want of inspiration, flown for relief to thy snuff-mull, and, having tapped the Cairn-Gorme which ornaments the top, with a grave and philosophic shake of the head solemnly raised the lid, and regaled thy famished nostrils with a grateful pinch? Hast thou not, on such an occasion, forthwith discovered that the floodgates of thy wit have been opened, and that ideas have poured down upon thee, driving thy pen along with the resistless impetuosity of a winter torrent? If thou hast, thou must know, or canst imagine, the drowsy, listless sensation which comes over one when deprived of the inspiring stimulant-the dearth of ideas-the utter want of fire which may be detected in the writing, or even conversation, of that luckless wight, who-having long indulged in the aforesaid very pleasant but very wrong, or, as our fair helpmate hath it, very disgusting and very filthy habit-hath suddenly been debarred the use of his nasal food. Such, gentle reader, is the sad predicament in which we, the once snuff-inspired Forest Ranger, are now placed; and, to all snuff-takers at least, we look for sympathy and a lenient criticism of the following pages, stale, flat, and unprofitable as an empty snuff-mull. Thou art, no doubt, anxious to learn the means by which we, an aged sinner, have so suddenly been converted-and thou shalt be informed; but we must first crave permission to ask one question-Hast thou a wife, gentle reader-a loving helpmate, who, out of pure kindness and affection, and for thine own proper good, keepeth thee in utter subjection? Or, if thou art still in a state of single blessedness, hast thou a fair friend, a guardian angel in female guise, whom thou lovest better than thyself, and at whose command thou wouldst lay down thy life if required? If thou hast either one or other, thou canst understand the means by which our conversion hath been brought about. If thou hast not, we must inform thee that nothing short of a very influential helpmate, or a much-beloved female friend, hath power to work such a miracle. Gentle reader, ours is the former case. Our fair helpmate, Heaven bless her! hath, after running in couples with a snuffy carle for twenty long years, suddenly taken it into her wise little head that it is necessary for her peace of mind that he should forthwith reform his manners, purify himself, and discontinue the vile, filthy habit of snuff-taking—a habit which, to use her own words, begrimeth the face, spoileth the form of the nose-Heaven bless the mark!-destroyeth the voice, and eventually undermineth the constitution. Remonstrance hath been vain. We have seen our beloved mull committed to the flames before our eyes, and, with a heart-rending sigh, we have bidden adieu to the inspiring drug for ever. We have this moment instinctively dived into the deepest recess of * Continued from p, 65, No. cci. our capacious sporran in search of the consolatory snuff-mull which no longer exists. And this reminds us that we must once more crave the sympathy of our snuff-taking readers, as well as the indulgence of our fair friends, which will no doubt be granted by the kind-hearted creatures, in consideration of the dutiful and submissive manner in which we have yielded to the gentle influence of our affectionate spouse. And so-scratching our ear and nibbing the tip of our pen, the only means now left to us of invoking inspiration-we proceed, with feeble hand, to record the further adventures of our two sporting friends, whom we left in the jungle, some two months back, ruminating over the carcass of a dead bison. How great a change has taken place since they first entered the forest! The sun is now high in the heavens; the fresh morning breeze has died away, giving place to a close, suffocating, steamy air; and all nature seems to be overpowered by the approaching mid-day heat. The stillness of death pervades the woods which so lately swarmed with life. Not a sound is heard to break the solemn silence, save, at long intervals, the tap of a solitary woodpecker, or the dismal wailing cry of the grey monkey, which, heard from a distance echoing among the hollow arches of the forest, sounds almost unearthly, and, to a superstitious mind, would suggest the idea of some evil spirit of the woods denouncing woe on the rash intruders whose footsteps have dared to violate the awful solitude of the wilderness. But we cannot attempt to describe the feelings of wonder and admiration almost amounting to awe, the wild spirit of romance, the ardent love of adventure with which, in our younger days, we have wandered through the pathless forest, and listened with rapture to the wild voices of the woods, as a lover to the soft sigh of his mistress. No; these feelings are not to be described, nor can they be understood, save by one who has wandered deep into the trackless wilds of an Indian forest, with no companion but his trusty rifle, no guide to direct his steps but the fiery sun which scorches the tree-tops-by one who has seen the prowling tiger cross his solitary path, and stood proudly, silent and alone, over the prostrate carcass of the vanquished bison. We must, therefore, leave our readers to imagine, as they best may, the ideas which are flitting through the brain of our friend Charles as he sits upon the trunk of that fallen tree, with his head resting on his hand, and gazing vacantly into the dark vista of the forest which lies in front of him. His head is evidently full of poetry: he may be composing verses for aught we know, or perhaps he is only admiring the dancing of the sunbeams, which, streaming through the thick foliage in threads of golden light, chequer the earth with bright and fitful gleams, whilst, over head, the polished green leaves upon which the rays happen to fall sparkle like emeralds amidst the surrounding gloom. At all events, he is indulging in a day-dream of some sort, and whether the subject thereof be sunbeams or ladies' eyes is no business of ours. Mansfield is reposing at full length upon the grass, smoking a cheroot and amusing himself by making a sketch of the fallen bison-for he is a naturalist as well as a sportsman, and always preserves drawings of rare animals, or specimens of an unusual size which he may happen to meet with. The Jaggardar is squatted at the root of a tree, with his knees doubled up to his chin, puffing out huge volumes of smoke, and |